


The One Behind the Mask

by jfcmartin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Fluff, Very OOC, and bad, but you should really read it, fem!lock, masquerade au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfcmartin/pseuds/jfcmartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What about you, Mr. Mysterious guy? Not chatty, are we? What’s your name?” She asked.<br/>“Sherlock Holmes.” He replied.<br/>She hummed in satisfaction. “Lucky me, I’ll be with the other Holmes for tonight!”<br/>“Well you will be disappointed then,” he said, not wanting to spend the rest of his evening with her. I’m more comfortable with being alone, thank you very much.<br/>(Rewritten in 3rd Person POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Christmas Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Haha yes another cheesy and weird AU brought to you by me. Well, not britpicked or beta-d again, so any errors are completely mine. Sorry if characters may be a bit out of character, but this is an AU people! It's sort of not gonna follow the BBC Sherlock canon.. not really

 It’s a cold winter night, people dashing about the soft buzzing of their voices lifting up the silent evening. It is against his will, but Sherlock Holmes is in the Christmas Ball hosted by his one and only brother, Mycroft Holmes.

You see, it has been a tradition that every Christmas, a ball would be arranged in which every person would be invited to. It wasn’t compulsory, but as the younger brother of the host, it was expected that he would be there. He wore a simple black suit and a red tie, with a half faced mask to match the theme.

This year’s theme is masquerade. It’s a bit cliché for the Sherlock’s taste, but somewhat mysterious and exiting for his brother. He is a bit fond of fairy tales, no matter how much he denies it.

Sherlock hates to admit it, but he thought he did a pretty good job with the venue. Darkness everywhere, just the way he liked it. Black curtains hung around the walls, with only a couple of candles and a chandelier at the center illuminated the room. The tables were tall and draped with dull grey cloth, and the middle of its leg wrapped in a yellow cloth like a ribbon. Some light music filled the air that came from the performers in front. He stayed with one of the tables, drinking a glass of imported white wine.

Wherever the wine was ‘imported,’ Sherlock had no idea. Mycroft simply throws it every time people compliment the drinks.

“Enjoying the party, brother dear?” A voice asked. The source approached Sherlock, wearing a black tuxedo and a white elegant mask. Luckily, it covered his face so he didn’t have to bear looking at him.

“Not really,” the other replied. “But it seems to me that you are. Have you found your goldfish yet?” He didn’t answer, but Sherlock could tell he was scowling underneath his mask. He left without another word.

Sherlock was left on the table again, took tiny sips from his drink, watched as people danced around, swaying to the music. He gently tapped his feet to the rhythm; in attempt to entertain himself as the minutes pass by. He would occasionally glance at his wrist watch, to check when will his miseries finally end.

“So, you’re alone here?” a female ask. She appeared in front of him, wearing a red sleeveless gown that reached the floor; she could be barefoot for all he knew. Her blonde locks were in a neat bun with two loose strands framing her face. What shielded Sherlock from her face was the gold sparkly mask, but through them, he could see her stormy grey eyes, showing her amusement by his lack of accompaniment, probably. Her lips were in a deep red shade, which matched her gown perfectly.

She didn’t wait for his response when she added, “Sorry to bother you; my sister forced me to go here,” she pointed at the woman three tables away from them. The woman was visibly older than her, Sherlock could tell by her posture and choice of wardrobe, which was more revealing than hers; a dark blue dress that accented her curves, and a cut on her right leg. She wore four-inch black heels, obviously borrowed, since her heel was getting a scratch. She wasn’t used to wearing it therefore it isn’t hers. Her hair was similar to my companion’s; but wavier and wasn’t tied up. The siblings wore matching masks. She raised her glass, to acknowledge them.

“What about you, Mr. Mysterious guy? Not chatty, are we? What’s your name?” She asked.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He replied.

She hummed in satisfaction. “Lucky me, I’ll be with the other Holmes for tonight!”

“Well you will be disappointed then,” he said, not wanting to spend the rest of his evening with her. _I’m more comfortable with being alone, thank you very much._

“Come on, don’t be grumpy. Enjoy the event! It’s your brother’s, you should be joining them right now,” She pointed at the dance floor, where dozens of people (mostly consisting ladies,) danced rather ungracefully and not with the flow of the music. They probably drank too much wine that they got light headed and lost control of themselves. Mycroft was surprisingly in the center of the floor, dancing like a giant buffoon, encouraged by others to perform worse than he was already.

“I don’t want myself to look like a fool,” he responded. He turned around and looked for an empty table, unfortunately, they were all occupied. He sighed and went back and was welcomed again by the same woman, smirking at him.

“Are you done yet? Okay, I get it know,” she raised her left hand. “You aren’t that much of an outgoing person like your brother,” _Please, if anything, he’s the worst person that you will have the fortune to meet_. “But hey, I’ll give you credit for actually coming back here!” She giggled and got a drink from a waiter, and sipped on the thin wine glass.

“As if I had any other option,” The man muttered.

She pouted, but he could tell it was fake. “Okay, okay! I’ll just let you be, Mr. Holmes. I won’t bother you anymore.” She started to leave, but Sherlock called out,

“Alright! You can stay.”

She turned back around, winked at her sister and strutted back to the table. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

Whether he want it or not, he’s gonna have to spend the whole ball with Ms. Chatter Mouth. He sighed. _I would rather be at home dissecting a liver._

* * *

 

Time flew quickly, at least. She wasn’t so much of a bore than he expected. She was the most intelligent woman he’s ever communicated with in any of Mycroft’s arrangements, which he only had a few options to choose from. She didn’t gush about her attire for the evening, or told gossip about who slept with who. Sherlock would be the one to point that out, since he could deduce it right away.

"Notice that woman in beige? She has an affair with the pianist." He said, earning a baffled look from the woman.

"Bloody hell! Surely you must be kidding, right?" She asked.

"Nope. They indulge in sexual intercourse in their boss's office whenever he's away. And don't call me Sherly."

She swatted his arm jokingly and said, "Whatever. But how do you know all this? Do you watch them?" She raised her brow and smirked.

"Of course not; it's very obvious. I know them, actually. Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. I have the misfortune to work with them."

"What do you do for a living anyway?"

"Consulting detective. I invented the job," He replied. He took a crisp from the bowl in front of them, right beside a vase with a single lavender rose in it.

"Don't give me vague answers, Mr. Holmes. You're getting more and more mysterious. What does that even do?" She took a crisp as well.

"I'm the one that solves cases once the police have given up. In this case all the time."

She furrowed her eyebrows as she chewed. "But that's impossible! The police don't consult amateurs."

A waiter approached them, with a bowl of nibbles and settled it on the table. I read his nametag and said, "Hello Richard. Shouldn't you be at the hospital right now? Your wife is having her contractions. She does need her husband by her side." His eyes widened and hurriedly checked his phone. He mumbled an excuse and ran off. Sherlock gestured at his companion.

"How did you know that?" She asked, knitting her eyebrows together.

"Like what you said; the police don't consult amateurs." Silence stretched for quite a long time, both of us challenging the other to speak another word. It ended when she spoke,

"That was brilliant." She clapped her hands while shaking her head. He hate to admit, but he was surprised. Sherlock was speechless for a while when she asked, "What's wrong?"

"No one reacted the same way you did."

"What do they normally say?" She asked.

"Piss-off." Sherlock replied. He looked down, suddenly interested with the bowl of crisps on the table when she started to laugh. He started to laugh along with her, and the man could sense that nearby tables were staring at them.

"Well one thing’s for sure, you certainly shouldn't piss-off. I might need you here for a while." She leaned forward, her face inches from his, and smiled innocently. He was flattered, but just a bit, and hid it immediately before she noticed.

She pulled back and looked around. She noticed a man at the far end, watching them. She gently tapped Sherlock on the arm and pointed him out. When he realized they can see him, he turned to leave, dissolving into the sea of people. The two shared a glance and knew at once what the other was thinking. They followed him.

The pair charged towards the group of guests, muttering a few excuse me's on the way. They got out and came face to face with the wall. The woman uttered a few curses and grabbed the man’s hand, and brought them to the right, which lead to a long and narrow hallway.

They reached an intersection, and when they looked to the right, they saw him and immediately hid behind the wall. They waited for a few seconds and followed him. He was facing a door at the far end and knocked. The door was opened by another man and he went inside. The door shut and both went towards it, looking around for any cameras that could catch them snooping around. When the coast was clear, they listened.

"--should've let me do the work! Now look what happened, they almost caught you." A voice with an Irish accent said. He must be the boss of the suspicious man.

"But sir, they weren't able to catch up! I was fast enough, and they didn't see me, I swear." The one with a deep voice replied, probably the one we encountered earlier.

"You must be thankful it's that younger Holmes that saw you. What if it was Mycroft? We would be arrested in the spot!" He took a few calm breathes and silence followed. "But that's okay, Seb. I'll just take care of this." They heard some suckling noise and it started to dawn on both.

The woman faced Sherlock and gaped. She mouthed, "Gross! They're kissing!" He rolled my eyes and grabbed her arm.

"If he's going to 'take care of this', then he must be leaving the room. Let's go!" The pair ran away, but heard the doorknob click. Sherlock pulled her with him towards the nearest unlocked door, inside a closet. Her mask fell down in the process. She was about to protest but he clamped her mouth shut, and hoped that he, whoever he was, wouldn't suspect a thing.

_I was just hoping he would be stupid._

"Hey Seb?" The man called. They could hear heavy footsteps coming in our way and stopped.

"Who owns this mask? You said no one followed you." His voices dripped with anger, and Sherlock could feel his friend's breath quicken.

Seb's stuttered, "But sir. That-- that belongs to the-- violinist!" If anything, Sherlock was thankful that he needed to cover himself up, and hid all three of them in the process.

"Violinist?" He spat. "You know damn well that only the two of us gets to pass by this wing. What makes you think the violinist would decide to pop by?"

It was silent for a while. Suddenly, they heard a loud thud coming from somewhere else, and it distracted both of them. "Oi, you young lads! Whatcha doin'?" The source was obviously intoxicated, and started singing the lyrics of some song with high notes. His voice got higher and louder and Sherlock found out that he was right beside the two, in front of the door. He reached the chorus and sung with all his heart. Sherlock could feel a soft chuckle on his palm, coming from the lady he’s holding.

He finished it off, and with a grand finale, decided to vomit. The Irish man groaned and screamed profanities to the drunk man. Seb stepped up and his fist collided with the tipsy man's face. And another loud thud was heard.

"These were Westwood!" They both left, and nothing was heard from the drunk, he must've slept on the floor. The two heard a door close and it was quiet. Sherlock pressed his ear against the door, listening if the coast is clear, and heard his name in a muffled tone.

He looked down and whispered, "What?" Sherlock realized he was still covering her mouth. He let go and she sucked in a deep breath and said,

 

"Sherlock, you're squishing me." Sherlock’s eyes widened and stepped back. She giggled and opened the door. And saw the man by her feet, right beside her mask. She wore it immediately and turned to him. "Sherlock! We better go, before they come back." She avoided the sleeping man, and he followed. They walked away, making sure they were silent.

Sherlock and his companion arrived back to the loud party, and went to look for a vacant table. Their previous table was taken already. They saw his companion's sister and she waved at them.

They reached her table and she did a knowing look, as if she knew they were up to something. "Ha! I knew you too would hit it off! You did a great job, little sister.”

She was very confused, looking at Sherlock and searched for an answer. He leaned forward, right beside her ear and whispered,

"Your lipstick is smudged, and your hair is sort of messy. My suit is a bit wrinkled. Anyone would think of the wrong impression." Her eyes widened and turned to her sister.

"No! It's not what you think! We weren't doing anything." Her sister shook her head with a cocky smile.

"You don't need to keep secrets from me, you know." She winked and whispered to her. She handed her something and walked away.

Judging by her face, Sherlock could tell that he did not need to know what she told her, or what she gave. She was almost as red as her gown, and the hand that held her gift was balled up in a fist. She took a few breaths and looked at him.

"Don't mind her! Just forget that ever happened." It seems that she was talking to herself.

"Practice what you preach," Sherlock replied. She groaned and dropped her head on the table.

"Sorry! My sister is dying for me to finally have a relationship! I don't know why she even cares! I'm just not into people, that's all! I'm--"

"It's alright. I understand." He cut. She looked up and stared at him for a while.

"You do? I mean, aren't you popular with other people? With girls, I mean."

He furrowed my eyebrows. "No."

She straighened herself. "Oh. You're... unattached... just like me." Sherlock nodded.

They heard sirens blaring, and everyone suddenly stopped. _Finally, silence._ Mycroft was in front, and tapped on the microphone.

"Sorry for this short interlude. But there has been two men caught in attempt to sabotage the party. But no worries! Everything is resolved!"

The two they’ve encountered earlier are being dragged out of the hall, all eyes on them. They were scowling, and once the shorter one saw Sherlock, he got angrier. He decided not to mind him and looked back at his brother.

"Okay, let's resume the party!" Some people clapped, and others went to the dance floor and danced.

"Hmmm, thank God they found out about those two. I was scared they might do something bad! I wonder who caught them, the drunk guy?" She laughed.

"Actually," Sherlock fished for his phone in his pocket and showed her the recent text messages. _Second Wing, Room 22, Vatican Cameos. -SH_

She read it and looked at Sherlock. "Vatican Cameos?"

"It's our code words for battle stations. That someone is at risk of death." He replied.

"Oh, well I thought the pope would be invited to the ball! Shame, I would've gotten his autograph." He chuckled and got two glasses from a waiter passing by. He handed her the other and said,

"Here's to a successful case." Sherlock held the glass high, and she clicked hers with his. They drunk the sparkling wine and settled it down on the table.

"And now, to end our Christmas, let us have a waltz for one last time." My brother said over the microphone. Everyone paired up and went to the center, swaying to the music.

"Dull." Sherlock commented.

His brother approached their table and scoffed. "Oh come on Sherlock, don't be such a bore to your date. Why don't you both dance?"

"Oh sorry, Mr. Holmes. But I don't dance. And it's alright! I'm never bored with him." The woman said.

"What about you, Mycroft? Too heavy to lift yourself?" The younger Holmes retorted. He rolled his eyes.

"Why must I listen to the wise words from the man that finds women alarming?"

"Women don't alarm me." He shot.

"How would you know?" The elder one replied smugly. Sherlock frustratingly took his friend by the arm and dragged her towards the middle, and took her by the waist with his left arm and held her other hand with his right. She automatically brought her right hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" She asked worrisome. Sherlock just gave her a pointed look and she nodded, understanding what he was up to. Sherlock stirred both with the music; she would step on his feet sometimes, and apologize.

"Look. I'm really bad at this. I think you've proven that you aren't a coward. And look, Mr. Holmes has left!” She said, and tried to pull away, but his hold on her was strong.

“Just stay here, is that alright?” He requested. She looked up, and rested her head on his chest.

“Sure. But you might need a wheelchair when this is over.” He chuckled and nuzzled his head on her hair. They swayed back and forth, enjoying each other’s company. It was quite a surprise that he felt so _comfortable_ with another woman, left alone a **person.** He couldn’t even get along with his own family.

But there was something with her. Something that was different from the rest. He couldn’t place a finger on it, (which was also surprising,) but there was something that made them click.

And apparently made himself too cheesy for his own taste.

But illogically speaking, everything was perfect, and that’s all that matters.


	2. John Watson isn't really a girl's name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks since the Christmas Ball happened. Nothing really happens after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh I actually updated something! I really am a writer! Anyway, I changed the first chapter to 3rd Person POV, so from now on I'm gonna use that writing style. Not planning to change the others tho but still. Anyway, I'm just talking to myself so, here ya go

_Ugh. Not again_.

If this goes on for the rest of her life, she better go poison herself with chlorine. As a barista in the local Starbucks, nothing new happens to her life. She get orders, ask for their names to write down on the cup, magically spell it wrong no matter how common it is, prepare the coffee, and wait for the angry customer to protest about the name. The _name._ Can’t they at least compliment the coffee?

Joan did the essentials; bath, breakfast, dress up. What else would be different? She is a trained and licensed army doctor, but this one incident ruined her image.

One day, a man had a check-up with her. He started endorsing these magazines that gave her no interest. But she was suspicious with his tone, like a serial killer.

_But hey, on my defense, it was a really big moment of panic. He and I were alone, and he could pounce at any given moment._

Turns out he was a completely innocent hippie that sold revealing magazines and had a bad intestinal problem, and it wasn’t nice to pull his beard and scream _Vatican cameos_ repeatedly. He was really confused on what the hell was she saying, but if he _was_ a serial killer, at least you get people’s attention and went in to catch him in the act, which they did.

They sacked her on the spot, not waiting for any logical explanation or gave her any time to defend herself from what she did, and left the poor old man scared of her own existence. That tarnished the name John Watson to every hospital in London, and now all she had to do was to look for an alternative job.

Oh yeah, you’re probably wondering. “John Watson”? Well you see; her parents expected a baby boy. When she came out to the world as a female, they just decided to name her as they originally planned.

_Convenient, huh? Well if you aren't comfortable, just call me Joan._

Joan is not really good with people, only few last more than one conversation with her. Her sister gets her sometimes, but she could be remarkably **thick** _._ She couldn’t get into a normal communication with a human being, and she expects her to have a relationship? Well she almost got what she wanted one night. Almost.

They went to a Christmas Ball hosted by one of the most prestigious men in England, Mycroft Holmes. Everyone was invited so, why not? As soon as we got in she gave Joan a glass of wine and she got a bit tipsy, being the light headed she is. She dared her little sister to approach this one man, and with a sheer amount of luck, it was _Sherlock Holmes_.

They sort of got along. She didn’t know where exactly did she get her confidence, but she _flirted_ with him.

_Yes, I flirted with Sherlock Holmes._

It was a wonderful night, in her opinion. They solved crimes, got trapped in a closet, and danced. But did something happen after that? Nope. It was just for one night.

_Two weeks has passed, why would he remember?_

It’s her lunch break already, so she went to make her own coffee and paid for it in the cashier. Joan went to sit on a booth near the window and checked her phone for any missed calls or texts. Oh wait, who would text me? A notification appeared on top, was a birthday notification.

 _Oh no. It’s Aunt Martha’s birthday_.

Aunt Martha is her mom’s first cousin. She lives somewhere in Central London and is the sweetest landlady you will find. Joan hasn’t talked to her in ages so she decided to give her a call.

She answered after a few rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, Aunt Martha! It’s me, Joan.” She greeted. Joan heard a soft gasp and she said,

“Oh! Joan, it’s nice to hear from you! How are you?” She asked.

“Everything is wonderful!” She faked a smile, despite the woman not seeing her. “But how about you? It’s your birthday! Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks sweetie. It’s lovely you remembered,” she replied.

“Why would I forget?” _I mean, my phone reminds me of that!_ She kept her mouth shut.

“That’s wonderful of you. Why won’t you pop by for some tea and biscuits? And we have a lot of catching up to do. It’s been months!” She invited.

Joan thought about it for a while. “Hmmm. I’ll be there at five. My shift ends that time, is that alright?”

“Not a problem, dear.” She answered. They said goodbyes and ended the call. She drank the remaining coffee and went back to the counter, and was welcomed by a wave of customers. Her colleague, Sarah Sawyer, handed the orders and Joan made the coffee. She was the people’s favorite. She was pleasant and spells their names right.

With their teamwork, they were able to satisfy the angry mob in half an hour. After that, only occasional customers would come and go, ask for the Wi-Fi’s password, or to look at the choices and leave.

As soon as Joan’s share of the work ended, she ran to the locker room and changed her uniform with jeans and a lime green shirt. She removed her bubble and ran her hands on her hair, so it would flow down her back. She grabbed her sling bag and shoved her uniform in it, closed her locker, and went out. Joan hailed a taxi and gave the cabbie an address “To Baker Street.”

* * *

 

“Aunt Martha!” Joan called. The woman wearing a floral blouse in front of a black door turned around. She smiled and walked towards her.  She pecked her on the cheek and said,

“It’s great to see you again, dear.” She led her visitor to the black door, with the numbers 221 on it. She opened it and both entered a hallway, which brought them to a short staircase on the left, and a door on the far right. She walked towards the door and opened it, with the other right behind her.

It’s a tiny flat. You could see all the utilities as soon as you enter her door, and a door at the far left, probably her room. It was fit for a person like her, living all by herself and wouldn't mind a bit of space to walk around.

A plate of nibbles and a pot of steaming tea were on the table in the center, with two cups on each side. “Aww, Mrs. Hudson,” she calls her every once in a while, “You shouldn’t have!”

She smiled meekly and beckoned her to sit on the chair. “Consider it a little birthday celebration. Come on, have a seat!”

The two women chat for a bit, occasionally sipping tea and ate the biscuits. The younger one would speak about her work and the man she met in the Christmas ball. She didn't bother mentioning his name; she would obviously believe she was lying. _It was all just a fairy tale_ , she thought.

Their conversation was cut off by an explosion coming from upstairs. Her military reflexes kicked in and stood up like her trousers caught on fire. The landlady appeared indifferent, polar opposite to her reaction.

"What's going on?" She asked. There could be another explosion and she's just sitting there?

"Don't mind that, dear. It's just the man living up there. He's always up to very whimsical experiments. That's normal!" She smiled.

It didn't assure--John--Joan-- whatever, and she climbed up the stairs. She reached a narrowly opened door, smoke curling out of it. She pushed it opened and surveyed the scene.

Smoke everywhere. That's all she could say. A person materialized from the blanket of smoke wearing a dressing gown, goggles and a mask. He had _very_ messy hair, his curly locks sticking out everywhere. He coughed for a bit and removed his mask, revealing his face.

_Shit. It's him._

"Twenty-five, full-time barista, yet you smell strongly of Mrs. Hudson's tea. Relative? Friend?" He deduced. Joan didn't really compliment his brilliance at the moment. She has the serious thick smoke to problem about first.

"What's going on?" She asked, widening the door for the smoke to come out. He just stood there. A normal day in the life of a consulting detective, right?

"Must've miscalculated," he fished a notepad from the pockets of his dressing gown and wrote his "findings" or whatever.

"John Watson. Pleased to meet you. Now can we get rid of this smoke now?" The woman asked, extending her arms and shook his hand. She took a handkerchief from her purse and sucked in a deep breath. She charged in and saw the windows. As if she's lived here before, John opened the windows wide and fanned the smoke out with her hands, the man not moving at all.

"Hey! A little help here!" She cried. He turned and opened the other window.

"Sherlock Holmes. Sorry to startle you, purely an experiment. You may go back to Mrs. Hudson if you must." Sherlock said. At least the smoke thinned, and Mrs. Hudson appeared outside the door and wrinkled her nose.

"Sherlock, not again." She tutted and went up to Sherlock, checking for any injuries, which Sherlock shrugged off. “This will be on your rent, young man. And it’s not helping your low budget!”

He removed his goggles and ran his hands on his hair. _You should not be turned on by that_ , Joan scolded herself.

Mrs. Hudson faced her and said, "I almost forgot! Joan, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Joan."

"Hmm, knew it. Your parents expected a male, but kept the name," he referred to her, then to the landlady, "And that wasn't necessary, we had the introduction just before you came."

She rolled her eyes; she's used to this, obviously. She didn't deserve dealing with an arrogant sod 24/7, but that's life. "I guess you can handle the rest of this?" She cooed.

"Not a problem Mrs. Hudson, thank you." He turned his back to her and rolled his eyes. He sat on a chair by his kitchen table and peeked through his microscope. Typical.

Joan eyed the skull on the fireplace and cringed. "Mr. Holmes--"

"Sherlock, please." He interrupted.

She cleared her throat. "Umm, Sherlock? What is this?" She took the skull and examined it. It doesn't fell plastic. _Maybe it's real_.

Mrs. Hudson decided to leave the two when Sherlock looked at her and said,

"Ah, my friend, Billy."

She raised her brow. "A skull?"

He chuckled. "Oh don't worry, you're doing fine." He resumed what he was doing. Was that supposed to be a compliment? Whatever that meant, Joan didn't know.

She settled back the skull on its original position and strode towards him. "What are you doing?" She somehow felt comfortable talking to him, like they've known each other for a long time now. But the truth was it has only been four hours, twelve minutes and approximately five seconds. She was that desperate.

Without looking up, he said, "It’s none of your business."

Her cheeks warmed up and mumbled and apology. Arrogant sod indeed.

"Well, it's nice knowing you." She forced a smile and left, currently embarrassed of her situation. She made a mental note to not strike up a conversation ever again.

She went back to her aunt's flat and greeted her happy birthday again, and gave her birthday present. It was a tiny tea pot. It wasn't actually meant to make tea, but it could be a nice table decoration. She got teary and gave her a hug. And with their final farewell, she left and hailed a cab. She told the directions back to her flat and sat back.

Sherlock Holmes was all in her mind for the whole trip.

* * *

 

Joan Watson thought her day will never get any worse. She thought the gods would look down at her and say, "Haha, fool!"

She went to her devastating job again. An infant spilled a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino Blended Coffee and another child slipped and fell on the floor. Whining filled the store, like fireworks in a New Year's Eve. But New Year was a _week_ ago.

"Everything's under control, ma'am. We've called the ambulance and it’s on the way." She reassured the mother of the clumsy child as he cried like there's no tomorrow. Sarah comforted the injured kid and tried to stop him from crying, but nothing worked. The ambulance arrived later than expected, when the physician started to explain.

“Someone ringed before you did, someone named Molly Hooper?” Joan was alarmed, for she was the one that lives in the same flat as hers.

“What about her?” She asked.

“There happened to be an explosion in her area. Two were reported dead and five are wounded. She found the bomb quickly and was able to evacuate most of the residents of the building. Do you know her?” He asked.

“She’s my flat mate,” Joan confessed. “Who died?” It sounded so casual, as if she simply asked which fictional character died in the book to be mourned afterwards. He showed the list, luckily, it wasn’t anyone she knew. But she grieved for their terrible fate.

Once the physician escorted the kid to the ambulance, accompanied by his mother, she went to her boss and explained her situation, and she had to get back to her flat immediately. He let her, but she had to be back as soon as she could.

She went to the underground tube. It wasn’t as convenient as the cab, but it was cheaper. When she arrived at the scene, she saw it, the building was in ruins and black smoke filled the air. There were a lot of sirens; ambulance and fire trucks aiding the victims wearing shock blankets and such. Joan spotted her friend talking to a fireman and approached her.

“What happened?”

Molly faced her and said, “Someone planted a bomb. Who knows why they did it. Here’s your luggage, by the way.” She handed her a suit case. Joan and Molly were clever. All of their important belongings, money, passport, some clothes, etc., were stored in it. In the event of an emergency, one of them would grab their suit cases and get out. It may disobey the policies of a school’s fire drill to bring nothing with you, but it does come in handy when you survive a bomb explosion.

“Thanks,” Joan replied.

A man in a uniform approached the women and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need a testimony from the witness. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He shook both their hands and led them to the police car, and to the police station.

“Are you sure it’s not too sudden?” He consulted.

“Of course,” Molly replied. They were in the detective inspector’s office. He sat behind his desk and the two of them sat across each other in front of him.

The D.I continued. “Okay. Where were you before the explosion happened?”

“Oh, Lestrade those are very misleading questions!” A man entered the office and scowled at the D.I. Meanwhile, Joan dropped her head on the desk. Molly looked at her worriedly, and looked at the other man.

“Oh, Sherlock! Why are you here?” Molly asked.

Joan lifted her head. “You know him?” They’ve been flat mates for two years, and she never mentioned the fact she’s _buddies_ with Sherlock Holmes?

“We work together at St. Barts!” She replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t we have more important matters to discuss, Ms. Watson? Molly, where did you see the bomb?”

“Wait, you know her?” Molly asked. Sherlock glared at her so she dropped it and thought for a moment, “It was in the janitor’s closet on the second floor.” The woman in front of her looked at her suspiciously.

“What the heck were you doing in the janitor’s closet?” She asked.

“That doesn’t matter now,” Sherlock snapped. “Anything suspicious going on before you saw it?”

Lestrade simply decided to sit back and watch the two’s conversation. So did Joan. Molly seems fine talking to someone practically squeezing information out of her, Joan thought. She couldn’t even keep a very casual conversation with someone, besides her and a few others. If she was in Molly’s place, she would stutter and annoy him. It was really a wonder how she kept up with him that night.

“Well, there was a man roaming around the third floor. I’ve never seen him before.” Molly reported. Sherlock asked her to describe him, and he went to grab a paper and pen from Lestrade’s desk, no questions asked.

He sketched every single detail Molly described. And once it was complete, Sherlock showed it to Molly and the others. Joan’s heart skipped a beat. She knew who he was.

“He oddly looks familiar.” Sherlock said. He furrowed his eyebrows and studied his drawing for a moment, as if the answer will come out right before his eyes. His eyes widened, but regained his posture a split second after. Joan could tell that he recognized him too.

“What is it, Sherlock?” The D.I. asked. Sherlock looked up and uttered,

“I met him once, in the ball.” Joan felt her heart being ripped to pieces. He went out without another word and left the three of them in silence.

“So,” Lestrade said. “Just let Sherlock handle this, we’re bound to find an answer at some point. Thanks for cooperating, ladies.” They nodded and left. Reality crashed on Joan and realized she had no place to live at that point.

“Hey Molly, where will you be going? I mean, the building exploded and all that.” Joan asked awkwardly.

“Well my cousin agreed to let me stay in her house for the time being. Unfortunately, it’s a really small place, and it couldn’t accommodate both of us. I’m really sorry.” She said sympathetically.“But if I ever found one, I’ll let you know right away!” That didn’t really lift her spirits, but she smiled anyway. They went to the tube and Molly hopped off at a certain station. She went back to her work, and decided to problem where she will stay later.

Joan was all alone now, and she had no idea what to feel.

Scared? Shocked? Sad? Anything with the letter S is probably it.

And a certain S might be the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think?


	3. Vatican Cameos?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan managed to find a place to live in, and a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So heads-up: Molly is basically the girl counterpart of Lestrade's mandatory going-out-for-pints-to-discuss-about-Sherlock trope, but they go for coffee instead. And Joan works three doesn't work the whole week, so she's free in this time... Annnd fluff ahead!! Errors are still mine tho...

_You are completely mad._ Joan thought. But it was her last resort for the time being. Otherwise she would be sleeping on a bench in Regent’s Park for the night. Joan rang the doorbell. A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door. Mrs. Hudson was equally surprised and worried when she saw Joan, so she pulled her into a hug.

“I heard what happened today, sweetie. Are you alright? Are you hurt?” She was like a mother to Joan, and she felt much better when she saw her.

“I’m alright, Aunt Martha. Problem is; I have no place to live anymore.”

“You are always welcome to stay with me for as long as you want.” She replied.

“Oh, but do you have an extra slot up there?” Joan pointed upwards, even if knew what her answer would be.

“There’s none, I’m afraid. But Sherlock is in a bit of a crisis and he would love to have a flat share. Is that alright?”

Joan smiled and said, “Not a problem.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed and led them upstairs. It was very squeaky, Joan noted. If someone would go and plan to murder Sherlock, he would hear the intruder immediately. Sherlock’s door was closed, so Mrs. Hudson knocked gently and opened the door. The flat was _really_ messy. It was as if a storm went past and ruined the whole room.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, aware of their presence, and bolted up. He fixed some of the papers on the table and set them over the fireplace. Sherlock took a knife and stabbed it on the pile of paper. Sherlock thought it got a bit tidier, so he stood straight up and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. Joan,” like a polite little boy in school.

All for a show, Joan thought. “Kind and respectful” aren’t really the main descriptions of Sherlock Holmes, and it amuses Joan to see him in that prospect.

Mrs. Hudson beamed at him and said, “That’s nice of you, dear. I have great news! Joan—“

“Will move in our flat, obvious. A building has been reported destructed. A woman left her work to go to that said building, and went with the witness to the police. Now why would she do that? She lost her home and therefore in need of a solution, she appears in our flat. What could we become of that?” Sherlock deduced, all too quickly, his words muddled in her head and she just heard his deductions come and go.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, hating to be rudely interrupted. “That is true. I’ll be cleaning the upper room, if you’ll need two bedrooms!”

Joan furrowed her brows, “Of course we’ll need two bedrooms.” _Haha, Mrs. Hudson, very funny,_ she thought.

  
“Alright then, I’ll be off!” And Mrs. Hudson went upstairs.

They were left alone in silence once more. Sherlock still stood there, hands behind his back and watched Joan with curiosity, as if she will do a flip. Joan felt compelled of his stare and dropped her eyes, staring at the carpet below. Joan had no idea what to do at this point; she’s here, right now, in the home of the one and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. And in the flat of her “date” in the Christmas ball.

Unfortunately, they are just the same person.

Wouldn’t he deduce it by now? Joan questioned herself. The person that can tell your whole life in just a glimpse couldn’t seem to realize that it was _her,_ the person about to move in, that he talked to; he danced with, in that very special night. Joan scolded herself. She hated to be a romantic; she guessed it was because of all those romance novels she read in her pastime. She shouldn’t expect these things to happen in real life; prince charming dancing you to oblivion and sweep you up your feet. Life doesn’t work that way. And she hated it.

Maybe he deleted it, she thought. He mentioned something about deleting the solar system before. It absolutely baffled her.

 _“You deleted the_ solar system?” _Joan screamed. After every one has left after the waltz, Sherlock and Joan decided to stay up a bit as Mycroft’s men cleaned the venue. There was a bottle of Mycroft’s “imported wine,” left, so they drunk it and shared some stories._

_Sherlock was filled with mirth and scoffed. “I didn’t need that! There will never be a case in which the cause of death would be the lining of the stars!”_

_Joan cackled with glee. “But that’s horoscope!”_

_Sherlock dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. “Eh. I deleted it. Why would it matter if we went round and round the garden like a teddy bear?” Joan looked to the side, anything but Sherlock’s face, and giggled uncontrollably. Sherlock giggled too, and their voices filled the almost empty hall. The workers looked at them oddly and resumed their work, shaking their heads in disbelief._

Joan snapped out of her thoughts and realized Sherlock was back in his table, the _kitchen_ table, and was peering thought the microscope. Joan thought she should get used to this, and sat on a chair. She picked the one on the left side of the furnace, with a flag of England pillow perched on it.

“What do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock mumbled; she nearly didn’t catch it.

“Ummm… It’s nice, I guess?” Joan didn’t know what to respond and surveyed the flat. Joan fidgeted with her hands on her lap, with absolutely no idea what to say next. She saw a violin placed on the chair in front of hers. _Oh._

“I play it when I’m thinking, does that bother you?” Sherlock asked once more, never looking up from his microscope.

“It’s fine. I kinda liked it,” she finished lamely. Joan hoped her aunt would finish cleaning the room immediately, so she could save herself from the awkward atmosphere she’s breathing in at the moment. It was as if she was in a pool of thick syrup, and she couldn’t function properly.

Joan cursed the moment she considered this idea.

“I usually don’t talk for hours, would that bother you?” Sherlock said, finally looking out of his microscope and to Joan. She returned the gaze and shook her head. Joan was fine with that, to be honest. She would spend most of her time at work anyway, and as much as possible, she would shut herself in her room, like a typical teenage girl.

A phone beeped, and Sherlock and Joan jumped at the sudden sound. It was his. He took it from the right of his microscope and read a text message. Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat, and went down, leaving his experiments behind. Joan was left alone.

Joan was about to follow him, when Mrs. Hudson appeared by the door, shaking her head. “There he is, dashing about. You should start to get used to this, if he doesn’t clam up in the kitchen to do all sorts of experiments, he would be out investigating murders! Oh, never a dull moment with him.” Mrs. Hudson looked in the distance, as if recalling a memory of one of their adventures. With her age, she wouldn’t be able to catch up with him, Joan thought.

Joan heard the front door open and close as Mrs. Hudson offered to help her fix her clothes and belongings in her new room. The creaking set of stairs was heard, and Sherlock came back in the flat. He looked at Joan with those eyes, the same ones that looked at her before springing into action; to follow the suspicious man at the ball. And she could tell what he was going to say.

“You’re not just a barista, you’re an army doctor,” Sherlock deduced. However he found that one out was beyond Joan. No traces of the war were left with her, she thought. But then again, this man is Sherlock Holmes. And the only thing that could defeat him is a mask and make-up.

“Yes,” Joan answered casually.

“Any good?” Sherlock asked.

Was she? Joan believed she did well in her days in Afghanistan. That time she got shot wiped the record off, but Joan wanted to believe in herself. “Very good,” She replied.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?”

“Enough for a lifetime; far too much.” All of the people left in Afghanistan, every single one of them, became close to her. Years of training helped Joan develop friends one way or another, and she couldn’t grasp that some—most of them are dead. And Joan didn’t need to dwell in the past.

“Wanna see some more?” The twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes made him look like a child, opening his present from Father Christmas.

Joan smiled at his question, stood up, and said, “Oh god, yes.” Sherlock walked out of the door and Joan went up to Mrs. Hudson.

“Thank you, but I gotta go. I’ll just fix my things when I get back.” Joan pecked her on the cheek and went out, hearing a _stay safe_ from Mrs. Hudson. She went to Sherlock’s side as he hailed a taxi. Joan had no idea what was about to happen. Another crime scene, perhaps?

A taxi pulled over and the two went in. Joan did follow Mrs. Hudson’s advice, she should get used to this life. She asked for a flatshare, and she got more than she bargained for.

* * *

 

Sherlock thought Joan was okay. He solves crimes, and she blogs about it. The arrangement wasn’t something Sherlock would want every day, but he simply went along with it.

Sherlock sipped on his cuppa and watched Joan carefully. She is on her laptop, writing a new blog entry. Sherlock could tell by the way she typed fast, obviously about him. Their last case was of the poison giant.

The case was thrilling, yet the case itself didn’t intrigue Sherlock. It was a particular phrase Joan said.

_“Vatican cameos!” Joan cried. Sherlock looked back and saw one of the men in the stance of throwing a dart in their direction. Joan pushed him with great force to the right, both of them landing on the cold concrete. When they got up, the man that shot the dart was gone._

Sherlock fell silent the whole time, wondering how Joan learned that code word. Only he and Mycroft knew what it meant, and telling another person would ruin the purpose of having a code word in the first place. Sherlock may be planning to tell her at some point, if a dangerous situation of life and death arose. But Sherlock thought that wouldn’t be necessary anymore.

He stored it in his mind palace. The information might be useful for the secret case he’s been solving for quite a long time. The case of “The One behind the Mask,” he liked to call. It involved the woman he had encountered in his brother’s Christmas Ball, and if his observations were correct, she would be Joan all the while.

Rule out the impossible; and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This was the phrase Sherlock always remembered when deducing. He tried thinking of the logical reasons of the build-up of this theory. It includes the perfume she used, Claire dela Lune. The creases on her dress that time were---

“And, post.” Joan exclaimed as she clicked on the mouse dramatically, sending out the blog entry of the “Poison Giant” for the world to see. Joan sat back on her chair and looked at Sherlock with her eyes squinted. “Why are you staring at me? Didn’t Mrs. Hudson tell you that it’s rude to stare?”

Sherlock barely moved a muscle and replied, “Thinking.” As if the word answers all the questions in the world. Sherlock brought both his hands together, and rested his chin above the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes and took a trip to his mind palace, working on his mystery.

The doorbell rang, and Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Joan. They thought for a moment and shook their head. Whoever rang it, they didn’t need their assistance. Not a client.

Mrs. Hudson opened it for them, and small talk was heard below. The staircase creaked, and Molly Hooper entered the flat, a big smile plastered on her face and greeted the pair joyfully.

“Good morning, you two! Just came up here to invite Joan for a cup of coffee! What do you say?” Molly turned to Joan and waited for her approval.

“Sure! Let me grab my coat,” Joan went up and took her parka on the clothes rack. “See you, Sherlock!”

Sherlock simply closed his eyes again and heard the front door shut. He knew that this was all a plan. Joan texted Molly to get out; and “a cup of coffee” would be the code for “talk about Sherlock.” This was all too obvious with their behavior and Joan didn’t feel like staying in the flat all day.

Sherlock sat in the same position for the whole afternoon; barely moving an inch to eat, drink or to have a _potty break._ Joan arrived around four in the afternoon and looked too cheery. She went to the kitchen to make some tea. Joan never made tea voluntarily if she wasn’t in the mood. Sherlock noticed this and frowned at her.

“Oh, Sherlock, everything’s just wonderful!” She sighed dreamily as she set the kettle on the stove. Sherlock was very alarmed, and was about to dial Molly to ask her what’s going on. Coffee wasn’t the only drink she and Molly had, he thought.

Joan giggled. “There’s nothing wrong, Sherl.” _Sherl,_ he repeated in his head. “It’s just; I have a date to the Valentine’s Party!” Sherlock sighed, another one of those events with nothing but people drinking and people snogging at isolated places. He saw many fliers plastered on every corner of London. They were too bright and colorful, it would be impossible to miss them.

Sherlock pretended to be interested in the topic, “Who’s your companion?”

Joan took two mugs and got tea bags, placing one in each rather clumsily. “Oh he’s a wonderful man. His name is Jim!” She laughed unpleasantly at the name. “A childish name for a very handsome man!” Sherlock decided he was mad at “Jim” from now on.

Joan’s behavior when drunk was one of Sherlock’s observations that made the woman in the mask and Joan similar. He stored it in his mind palace and did an experiment to test it.

“A waltz is obviously involved, Joan. Do you know how to dance the waltz?” Sherlock asked casually. Joan stopped dead on her tracks and her eyes widened. She hyperventilated and fanned herself.

_Of course not._

Sherlock stood up and walked up to Joan. He took her hand and led her to the sitting room; it had enough space to move around. He took Joan’s left hand with his right and took her right hand and placed it on his shoulder, dropping his own hand on her waist. Sherlock hummed a tune and danced to it, Joan following his actions. Sherlock felt Joan was sobering up, and all she did was stare at him the whole time. They were carried away with their dance, they didn’t notice Mrs. Hudson come and go, and their tea grew cold.

Joan accidentally stepped on Sherlock’s foot. He knew this was going to happen, but he was too drowned in the moment to dwell on it. He probably repeated the song thrice already, he stopped humming. Joan dropped her hands and said, “Thanks.” Joan lowered her eyes, and felt her ears turning pink.

Sherlock abandoned her and went for the couch. Joan knew he was going to sulk.

_Did I do something wrong?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you haven't noticed, I'm running out of other plot devices) So... what do you think? I'm really bored at the moment, so if ever I get the strength to, I'll update the next chapter earlier :D (I don't know maybe today who knows?)


	4. The Amazing Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan attends the Valentine's Day Party with her date Jim, her best friend, and--- _Sherlock?_ What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah I actually updated after all these years!! And people actually read it! Thanks! Anyway, this chapter is sort of set as a alternative version of what happened in Season 1. Pre-The Great Game so it's sorta similar to the BBC canon. I changed added a tag that says "alternative meetings" or something.
> 
> Still not Beta-d/Brit-Picked, all mistakes are mine. Help a poor child if you are willing. And as always, nothing belongs to me.

Joan prepared for the evening. Sherlock haven’t uttered a word for two days, unless it was important or related to their case. This worried her. It was true; Sherlock told her that he wouldn’t talk for days in some occasions. But the atmosphere was different, and it wasn’t because he was thinking or busy. It was because he’s _avoiding_ her.

Molly helped her pick the right dress for the evening; a purple floral lace dress with a lavender ribbon tied around her waist. She decided to wear flats today, which were simply black with a white stripe on the tip. After curling her hair and doing her make-up, which took almost an hour to complete, she went down. She encountered Sherlock sitting on the couch, staring at her. It was hard to read his expression, and unfortunately, Joan hasn’t acquired Sherlock’s deduction skills yet.

“Sherlock,” Joan called silently. He continued to stare at her with the same blank face. She sighed and walked towards the consulting detective, and sat on the lumpy furniture.

“Look, I’ll just be out for a few hours! I’ll be back in no time.” Joan smiled, in attempt to lighten the mood, but failed. She placed her hand on his knee and said, “I’ll be home in time to write the case of the _Hollow Client_!” Joan laughed nervously. She started to panic. Joan didn’t even know why he’s mad at all. Sherlock taught Joan how to dance the waltz and suddenly, he was dead silent. Even Mrs. Hudson couldn’t tell what was going on.

Joan had a theory of what might be the reason of all this, but she didn’t want to put it in words. But maybe, just _maybe_ , Sherlock knew it was her.

Mrs. Hudson came in and knocked on the door. She looked at Joan adoringly and at Sherlock worriedly. Joan stood up, walked towards the landlady and twirled.

“Oh, Joan, you look wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson brought her for a hug, as if this was her wedding day. Molly was right behind her, wearing a simple black dress, sleeveless on one side and with a rose as the sleeve on the other. Molly waved at her, and when she saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, she waved at him as well. Her cheer faded when he barely acknowledged her presence, or any of theirs for that matter. She looked at Joan and conveyed a silent message. What’s wrong?

 _Later_. Joan mouthed back, but she was a hundred percent sure Sherlock noticed this, but it didn’t matter. Joan followed Molly with a final glance at Sherlock, too see if he would react, but didn’t. She sighed and finally left.

Molly probably borrowed her cousin’s car, since there was a black one waiting in front of 221B. And Joan’s deductions were correct. On the driver’s seat was Molly’s cousin, Anthea. She wasn’t wearing anything special; it must be because Anthea wasn’t going to attend the party itself. Molly sat beside her and Joan stayed at the back. They drove off.

“Hey, aren’t you attending the party?” Joan asked to break the silence.

Anthea rolled her eyes and laughed. “Me? Attend a party? Never in a million years. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. I work for the government, see? Secretary of your boyfriend’s brother, Mycroft Holmes. It’s been a living nightmare working for him.” Joan’s cheeks turned pink at the mention of _your boyfriend_.

“Erm, Sherlock? No, he isn’t my boyfriend,” Joan clarified. Molly’s expression said otherwise.

“Mycroft speaks highly of you, which is very rare, considering he’s an arrogant git.” Anthea explained as Molly’s laughter filled the vehicle. Joan decided to close the subject.

They reached their destination, and once they got off the car, Anthea left with a wave. Molly was very ecstatic, Joan noted. They went in the venue to find their dates. Joan will go with a man named Jim Moriarty. She had no idea who will Molly go with, and every time Joan asks her, Molly would giggle and change the subject. Joan guessed she’ll find out eventually.

James Moriarty, Jim for short, was a man they met in the coffee shop when Joan and Molly went out. Jim was in the booth behind theirs and he introduced himself. They became close friends and shared their stories. It was beyond Molly’s knowledge, but he said he worked in St. Barts. Molly decided to keep that in mind. The subject of the Valentine’s Day Party surfaced, and he offered to go there together. Molly declined it; she had plans with her mysterious date. And with that, Jim and Joan agreed to go as a pair instead.

Joan had a bad feeling about it, but who would turn down a wonderful man? Joan swore she thought Jim was familiar, but she thought that maybe it’s because he was such a sweet and gentle man. Joan thought better than to suspect false accusations to a man she just met, and gave him a chance.

Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw a patch of jet black hair. She immediately approached the person and greeted Jim with a warm smile. Jim wore a black suit and a navy blue tie with white spots.

“Good evening, ladies. Its such a pleasure to see you tonight. Joan,” Jim pressed his lips on the back of her right hand and turned to her friend and said, “Molly,” And did the same gesture. Molly blushed at this. They walked towards an empty stool near the bar, Jim politely offering the stool to Joan. She sat rather ungracefully, but Jim offered her a smile.

“Shouldn’t your date be here by now, Molly?” Jim asked, looking around the crowd.

Molly’s face lit up with excitement. “He said he’s on his way. Oh I can’t wait for you to meet him.” Just on cue, her phone buzzed in her small black purse. She fished it out and brought it to her ear. She excused herself and left Jim and Joan alone.

“I must say, Ms. Watson, you look absolutely stunning tonight,” Jim complimented.

“Thank you Mr. Moriarty,” Although she was quite flustered by his comment, she didn’t feel those butterflies fluttering around her stomach. Whether it was because she’s not a teenager or not, Joan didn’t know. Still, it was very different when Sherlock does it.

Before her thoughts wandered back to the sulking man waiting for her in 221B, Jim reached out to hold her hand. He watched her with a thoughtful look in his eyes, concerned of how she was.

“Are you alright? You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” Jim asked. He rubbed his thumb on her palm.

“I’m alright.” Joan replied. She forced a smile. Jim thought that a couple of drinks will cheer her up, so he asked the bartender for drinks.

A few minutes later, a man appeared beside Molly and greeted her with a peck on the cheek. Either Joan still hasn’t gotten over her silent argument with Sherlock or not, but Molly’s date looks exactly like Sherlock. And Joan was positive that she wasn’t exaggerating. The way he styled his hair, how it was tremendously _curled_ at the right places. Joan wouldn’t bother lying that she watches Sherlock when he isn’t looking, but this man really memorized every detail. Joan was startled for a moment, taking quick glances at the man and her friend, and gaped.

Molly giggled when she explained. “Joan, Jim, this is Tom! We’ve been meeting up since the—thing at the apartment, and we decided to go together for the party!” Tom whispered something in her ear and waved at the pair. Molly giggled, wrapped her arm around his and went with him, leaving Jim and Joan alone.

Joan looked like a fish out of water. She could only manage to say, “Is he--- What?” She laughed.

Jim chuckled, “Looks like someone’s a fan of the amazing Sherlock Holmes.”

Joan’s amusement died down and the whole minute passed as she or Jim laughed lightly and watched the ice in their drinks melt. Joan met Jim’s eyes and stayed there for a bit.

“Would you like to dance with me, Joan Watson?” Jim smirked and stood up, holding out his hand for her to accept. She took it and let him lead the way to the center.

They danced to the beat of the music, swaying their hips and putting their hands up in the air. Joan giggled as Jim did goofy dance moves. A conga line went past them, so Jim grabbed her arm and joined with them, making funny faces behind Joan. The colorful lights made Joan dizzy, but she was caught up in the moment to care.

When the pop song finished, the lights started to dim. Joan had to squint for a bit to adjust to the new lighting. The DJ started to announce that there would be a slow dance, so everyone went in pairs and wrapped around each other. Jim took her hand and spun her around, held her in position and led the way.

“I must confess, I had a wonderful time,” Jim said, gazing at her with such adoration.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Joan started, holding back a giggle. “But so did I.” Her date grinned. He placed his forehead on hers and hummed

They carried on dancing for a few more minutes, but things got uncomfortable. Jim started touching her in places far from her liking. She squirmed at his touch, but it only encouraged him to continue.

“Jim,” Joan warned, staring at him with her stormy grey eyes. “Stop it.”

He looked at her with questioning eyes; definitely not asking what was wrong, but why is she protesting. “But I’m only playing with you, darling.” Joan was disgusted at this point, so she walked away, not bothering to make a scene.

She went to look for Molly, to tell her that she was about to go, but Joan couldn’t find her. Joan gave up and went out. She grabbed her parka from the coat racks and left. Joan trudged to the nearest bus stop and waited. She took her phone from her purse and called Molly. It went on answering machine so she left,

“Hey Molly, I’m leaving. Hope you had a great night!” She made sure that her voice wasn’t suspicious; she didn’t want her best friend to get worried. It will only ruin her evening. As much as Jim ruined hers.

She started to recall what happened today. _What was I thinking_? Joan thought. She went to a place with someone she just met, felt something wrong about said person, and didn’t think enough to leave? Joan wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She was John Hamish Watson, for god’s sake. She could do without the sensitivity on finding out she was an idiot.

I mean, Sherlock reminds me constantly, she thought.

Joan was about to think about her excuse on why she was early, when she felt a strong grip around her head, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waddya guys think? I'm almost done with the whole story anyway, so I'll post the ending tomorrow. Comments are always welcome, there's a headless nun in it for you!


	5. Two Psychopaths Flirting About Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Valentine's Party was the least of Joan's concerns. And her concerns don't involve the red dot on her chest either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised; the last chapter of this story. Thanks for reading it, if ever you came this far. I'm currently writing a sequel, which is sort of like what happens along A Scandal in Belgravia.
> 
> This is actually my first ever multiple chapter fic, completed and updated, so I treasure this very deeply. And the people who gave kudos to this are forever in my hearts. 
> 
> Anyway, here it is. Nothing belongs to me! 

It was dark. Everywhere. Joan couldn’t move nor see; she felt her surroundings vibrate. Joan realized she was in a van, her hands and legs tied, and her head covered in a smelly bag with her mouth wrapped by a piece of cloth. Whoever decided to kidnap her must be an _idiot._ Out of all the people they could take, it was her. Joan thought how hard it must be carrying an unconscious person along a crowded area. At least someone would’ve noticed but _no._

Joan kicked whatever her feet could reach and scream, but it was muffled by the cloth. Someone pinned her legs to the seat, and she was immobile. Joan gave up and slumped back, hoping they weren’t planning to kill her soon, and Sherlock would eventually realize she’s up too late. She’s just going to have to face the consequences sooner or later.

The vehicle halt to a stop, sending her forward and almost fell on the car floor. She felt the door open and someone pulled her by her legs, and carried her harshly on the shoulder like a sack of rice. Joan could tell the kidnapper was a man, because of his grip and strength. She was officially terrified of what’s going to happen. No idea where she was, or who did this. Her pouch was missing, it is where she stored her phone and other credentials, and if ever she would die a terrible death, people wouldn’t be able to identify the body.

The man carrying her kept walking, opening and closing doors. At the last door Joan heard close shut, she heard splashing water. _Am I near a pool?_

If the man was planning to fling her off the water, she may know how to swim, but her hands are literally tied. It would still be a great disadvantage. Joan’s deductions were wrong, (she definitely needs lessons from Sherlock) and she was left on cold hard tiles. Joan started to cry in protest, but was still muffled, and the man walked away. A door opened and closed once more and it was silent. Joan knew more than to start thrashing around and scream for help. It was useless. She was obviously alone and no one would aid for rescue.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming from her right. It was strange, a door didn’t open. The hair on her neck stood when she thought he could’ve been here the whole time. The steps grew louder, and it stopped by her side. Joan felt a hand grab her face with great force and the bag on her head was removed, along with the cloth on her mouth. She came face to face with the kidnapper, and she was never as scared as this her whole life.

“Good evening, darling,” he cooed. “It’s nice of you to pop by!” Jim Moriarty. Joan regretted turning him down. She realized that her dignity will vanish regardless of her option. Joan wanted to spit on his face, merely inches from hers. She knew it would be a bad decision, so she decided not to. He studied her face with a vile smirk and brought his hand to trace her features with his index finger.

“You know better than to resist, sweetie,” he said. With a snap of his finger, a red dot was trained on her, and she knew what it meant. “One wrong move, Joan Watson will be gone forever. Do you understand?” She nodded.

He chuckled and went down, removing the ties off her wrist and on her ankles. He stood up and brushed imaginary dirt off his suit. Jim mockingly held his hand out, the same way when he offered her a dance. Joan stood on her own, ignoring the hand hovering above her. Joan felt pain everywhere, her legs felt like jelly, her arms felt as if it has been injected with thousands of flu shots, and she felt queasy. She winced.

“Oh, that’s alright dear. That’s simply one of the side effects of the drugs! Shouldn’t you know these? You do live with a drug addict.” The mention of Sherlock made her stomach churn. _Now is a great moment to bust out of the door, Sherlock!_ Joan thought, but nothing came. Jim walked towards the shadows and reappeared with a lot of explosives attached to a vest draped on his arm, as if he was simply holding tablecloth to be placed on the table for Christmas dinner. He searched for any fear or recognition on her face but she did her best not to show any.

“Oh, these? These are bombs, if you haven’t noticed. I’ve had three attempts of using these, you know. Once was in a wonderful masquerade ball in the holidays, but sadly I failed that one. Luckily, I knew the police man, and he was all too gullible!” Joan mentally slapped herself. She knew this man was suspicious, and she was right the whole time. Joan made a mental note to trust her deductions. It worked for Sherlock.

“The next was in that lovely building near Whitechapel? Oh, that was an unfortunate event, but it was safe to say it was a job well done!” Joan wanted to wipe the existence of Joan Watson off the world for being the densest human being you will ever have the fortune of meeting. Joan’s luck all this time was connected to the man standing right in front of her. The world flashed signs the whole time, but she failed to acknowledge them.

The _earful_ she will be hearing from Sherlock if ever she survived tonight.

“And this would be the third. And I plan that there will be more to come!” He went closer and removed her parka with is freehand and attached the bombs around her waist and draped them over her shoulders like a vest. He placed the coat back and took a step back. Jim smiled at his own “masterpiece” and rubbed his hands together.

“All we have to do now is wait.” Jim went by Joan’s side and draped an arm around her shoulders. Joan flinched at the sudden contact. He led her towards a shower room and said, “Once you hear something, get out.” Joan’s eyes grew with anticipation. “But just remember; you can’t say a word. Nothing. Let me do all the talking and you will simply repeat them.” Jim took a bud from his pocket and tucked it in her ear. A wireless earphone. Jim took a small microphone from the same pocket and blew on it, sending a static wave in Joan’s ear, and she cringed.

He was contented and left her there, shutting her out with a blue curtain. Joan was amused instead of scared that the red dot was still with her. Wherever the sniper is, he or she must be trained well. Joan was frustrated to stay there, without the ability to _do_ anything. Her hands were metaphorically tied right now, and she was _tired_ of having her hands tied. Joan needed to break free. She wanted to kick Moriarty’s _arse_ if that’s the last thing she will do.

“I’m here!” Joan heard. She forgot to breathe when the voice said, “Tell me where she is, and I’ll leave you in peace.” Joan remembered the instructions given to her and went out, the red dot magically disappeared. She rolled her eyes on how stupid this was. Sherlock was here to save the day and all she could do was to repeat whatever Jim had to say. Joan should belt out the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody if he did, or her life would end.

And the worst way to die is refusing to sing _Bohemian Rhapsody?_

Joan heard a mellow voice in her ear, and she knew it wasn’t her guardian angel. _“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”_

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” She spat. Whether she made it sound convincing or obvious she’s just saying words, Joan didn’t find out.

_“Bet you never saw this coming!”_

“Bet you never saw this coming!” Joan echoed. She didn’t need to deduce it, Sherlock was disappointed. Joan saw a red dot dancing on her coat, and the earphone whispered, “What would you like me to make him say next?” Joan unveiled the explosives strapped to her body, and Sherlock’s eyes widened, but his stance stayed the same.

“Stop this.” Sherlock said. Joan knew it wasn’t directed at her, but to the voice. She felt like a messenger.

_“I made the apartment go boom. I could easily do the same to Joan Watson. Stop her heart.”_

“I made the apartment go boom. I could easily do the same to Joan Watson. Stop her heart.” Joan replied.

Sherlock looked around the pool, finding the source of the red dot, but couldn’t find one. “Who are you?” His voice bounced on the walls and a door violently opened, hitting the wall beside it. Jim walked out with such confidence, it sickened Joan. When Jim’s eyes met Joan’s, he gave her a wink. Joan inwardly scowled, avoiding any trigger that will cause the bomb to explode.

But then again, why would he be here?

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” Sherlock grabbed the pistol from his pocket and raised it towards Jim. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Both,” Sherlock replied. Jim didn’t flinch or anything. Joan guessed it’s a hobby of his to constantly annoy people and make them point guns at him. She questions why didn’t they _continue_ it.

Jim pouted. It was disgusting, Joan thought. “Jim Moriarty. That’s me! Sorry I wasn’t able to introduce myself properly, Sherlock. The first time we met was really confusing. The two of you! You were wearing masks it was quite hard to identify. It was a bit annoying, you know.” Jim’s Irish accent was so thick; it must take a completely  _thick_  person to not connect the dots.

“Now we’re here. No one’s watching, no one’s wearing masks, and no one’s going to stop me.” He said in an audible whisper. Jim looked from left to right, as if he was about to cross a road and walked closer, bumping Joan’s shoulder playfully.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see,” he looked up, rubbing his chin. “Just like you!”

“Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked a foot forward, testing the waters and looked what would happen. Jim simply smiled at his joke. Joan thought they looked like they’re flirting. _Two psychopaths flirting about murder. Cool story. Can you unstrap me now?_

“Just so,” Jim tilted his head adoringly at Sherlock.

“Consulting Criminal. Brilliant” Sherlock said, and Jim nodded, acknowledging the compliment. They would be a beautiful couple, Joan thought. Jim would play Mr. Criminal, Sherlock solves them and at the end of the day, they would prance into the sunset. They wouldn’t have it any other way. At this point, Joan didn’t give a damn that she was wrapped with bombs. She watched the two converse and make side jokes.

“Funny though, no one will ever get to me," he leaned towards Joan and hovered just beside her ear. He whispered, "And no one ever will." She shuddered as his breath danced around her ear. Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"I did," Sherlock answered.

"You've come the closest, but now you're in my way." Jim marveled, picking at the wires draped over Joan's shoulder. She held her breath, hoping he didn't pick the wrong one and blow all three of them into ashes.

She couldn't believe her life was in the hands of this sick bastard. He was definitely playing with them right now, like sock puppets. He controlled their every movement, and he was enjoying every second of it. She made an oath to knee him in the groin at the next opportunity she could. Maybe if she wasn't strapped with semtex.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, acting as if he was very flattered.

Joan looked around the pool. It would've been a nice place to spend a hot afternoon in, if it weren't for the fact that she was under the mercy of James Moriarty. Of course, with her trusty side-kick to save the day, Sherlock Holmes. If she ever came out here alive, she would bring her friends here. They would ask, _Oh, how did you know about this place?_ She would answer, _Ah, I almost died here! It brings back beautiful memories._

That is, if Sherlock's flirting penetrates Jim's big ego.

"Enough with the flirting," Jim said, taking a step away from Joan and closer to Sherlock. With a shrill voice, he added, "Daddy's had enough now!"

If it weren't for the given situation, Joan would've giggled. She couldn't believe the conversation she's witnessing right now. Part of her hoped that a cameraman would scream, cut, and everyone would take five. Unfortunately, that isn't possible.

"I did everything, Sherlock. Everything, just to get you to come out and play. I even picked her out as bait to come and catch you!" Jim took a lock of her hair and twirled it around her fingers. "I should've gotten her from the very start. Saves me for all the trouble. D'you know how much does explosives cost nowadays?"

Joan was ready to bite Jim's hand off as he dragged his fingers down her neck. She watched as Sherlock stared at Jim with pure disgust. She felt worse for him than for herself.

"But I must confess, I loved this-- this little game of ours." Jim turned to Sherlock, finally taking his fingers off her.

"People have died," Sherlock stated. Well so will we if you don't hurry up. Joan said inwardly.

Jim scoffed and replied, "Well that's what people DO!" Joan winced, his last word echoed throughout the whole pool. Sherlock remained indifferent. His eyes flickered towards Joan, and he passed her a silent message, _You alright?_ She smiled apologetically.

Jim must've noticed their interaction, and he smiled wickedly. "Ah yes, the power of love. The weapon against all odds. Such a beautiful sight." He tilted his head and pouted. Joan thought of multiple ways to use her gown as a gag to knock the wind out off Moriarty. Nothing gave her the opportunity to dodge bullets while saving both their arses simultaneously.

Sherlock huffed and took something out of his inner pocket. A silver USB. He stretched his hand towards Jim. He took a quick glance at it and smirked. He plucked it from Sherlock's hands and kissed it. He shook it gently and tossed it aside, landing in the pool with a soft plop.

"Boring!" Jim boomed. Joan neer knew what was in the USB. Sherlock probably thought it was something of significance that would spark Jim's interest, but his deductions were wrong.

"Nice try, Sherlock. But I could have got them anywhere."

Joan couldn't stand it anymore. This was the last straw. _If I tripped on my dress and got us all killed, so be it._

She yanked Jim and wrapped her arm around his throat and chest. Joan leaned in his ear, similar to how he taunted her minutes ago. "If your sniper pulls the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up. She tightened her grip to emphasize her point.

Jim didn't flinch. He tilted his head towards Sherlock. "Isn't she sweet? I can see why you like having her around. But people do get so  sentimental about their pets." He tutted. "But oops!"

A bright red light suddenly blinded Sherlock for a moment, and it started to dance around his forehead, down his chest, and back to his face. He closed his eyes and silently rolled his eyes. _Typical._

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson!" Joan growled and took her hands off him. The laser points were dancing around her chest, as if telling her how much of an idiot she became.

Moriarty flattened out his coat, raised his eyebrows, and said, "Westwood." Joan really wished a drunk man would run up to him and vomit all over him. Better than that knight in shining armor crap.

"D'you know what will happen when you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?" Jim asked, like a teenage bully in a typical American high school.

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock replied, pretending to think about it for a moment. "I get killed."

"Kill you?" He grimaced. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you someday anyway. I don't wanna rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special." Joan rolled her eyes. _Hey I can't kill you right now, it's for a big surprise!_

"Point is, I'll burn you, Sherlock." He snarled. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I do not have one," Sherlock whispered, his face as hard as a rock.

"But we both know that's not quite true. Am I right, Joan?" He turned towards her and played with her hair once more. She was definitely done with it.

Moriarty turned towards Sherlock and said, "Well, I'd better be off. It's so nice to have had a proper chat." He started to turn around and walk away, but Sherlock asked,

"What if I was to shoot you right now?" _Seriously?_ Joan thought. W _ell maybe dozens of bullets will come in our way, Sherlock, that's what._

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He made a face of surprise, and Joan bit back a giggle. _Your life is at stake here, Joan Watson, stop laughing._

"'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He starts to back away, pleased with himself. "Ciao Sherlock Holmes, Ms. Watson?"

Joan turned her back to him, which was a really bold move, considering that one wrong movement will trigger the bombs.

"Catch you later," Sherlock replied, pausing after every word. His gun still aimed at Jim.

He smirked and sung, "No, you won't!" He walked towards the door, snapped his fingers in the air, and the red dots suddenly disappeared, just like that.

Joan breathed heavily, drawing her head back and closed her eyes. It was almost like she was holding her breath for the past hour minutes. It happened to be the longest hour of her life.

Sherlock quickly fastened his gun in his pocket and rushed to Joan's aid. He unfastened the vest filled with bombs harshly, and threw them away as far as he could. He held Joan's face with his hands and asked, "Are you alright?" He was breathing heavily as he searched her face for an answer.

"I'm fine," Joan said, letting out another sigh of relief. She smiled and Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, with her giant gown in their way. None of them said a word for minutes, Moriarty could be watching them, but they didn't care.

Finally, Joan said, "So you knew?"

Sherlock nuzzled his head in her hair, which was already fuzzy since she was kidnapped in some sort of bag. Who knows how many heads were victimized by that bag. "Of course I knew. It was fairly obvious."

Joan snorted. "The world's first consulting detective unable to know who I am? Uncalled for."

"I can never be fooled by a mask," Sherlock retorted, breaking away and took a step back. He watched as Joan stubbornly crossed her arms.

"Why didn't you say anything about it?" She faked a pout, something she never thought she would do in a million years.

"Romance, not my thing." Sherlock retorted, backing away slowly, as if he was starting to get bored with their conversation. He placed his hands behind his back and turned away. Joan opened her mouth, tried to say anything, but nothing came out. 

She decided to follow him, she repeated, "'Romance, not _your_ thing'? 'Romance, not your thing' my _arse!"_

"There are multiple things I could perform that involves your arse, where should we begin?" Sherlock said monotonously.

Joan stopped for a moment. "Are you flirting with me, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock stopped as well, turned his back, looked at her for a brief moment, and resumed walking. Joan laughed. She skipped happily towards his side

Sherlock watched her from the side of his eye and asked, "You never fail to amuse me."

Joan scrunched her nose, "With what?"

They walked out of the pool, Sherlock opened the door and let Joan out first. She raised both brows.

"Romance, not my thing," Joan mimicked, making her voice as deep as she could.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was merely an act of respect." He raised his hand to hail a taxi; he didn't dare to meet her eyes. The cab halted in front of them and he opened the back door, gesturing Joan to get it.

“See! There it is again,” She giggled uncontrollably. He scoffed and pushed her into the cab.

“To Baker Street,” Sherlock said, before shutting her up with his mouth placed on hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are gladly appreciated! Thanks for reading this fic, as usual. And ya'll can follow me at my Tumblr with the same username: jfcmartin. 

**Author's Note:**

> If this gets enough kudos/comments, I would really be thrilled to make more chapters. (Well I'll make them anyway)


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